" Winter had not weakened its roof nor wrenched away
its storm-windows; no irresponsible wayfarer had used it for a
lodging, nor had any casual marauder entered to despoil. Medora
directed the disposition of the hamper of food with a relieved
air and sent Cope down with Peter for an armful or two of
driftwood from the assertive shore.
"And you, Carolyn," she said, "see if the oil-stove will really
go."
Down on the beach itself, where the past winter's waste was
still profusely spread, Cope rose to the greening hills, to the
fresh sweep of the wind, and to the sun-shot green and purple
streakings over the water. The wind, in particular, took its own
way: dry light sand, blown from higher shelvings, striped the
dark wet edges of the shore; and every bending blade of sandgrass
drew a circle about itself with its own revolving tip.
Cope let the robust and willing Peter pick up most of the
firewood and himself luxuriated in the spacious world round
about him. Yes, a winter had flown--or, at any rate, had passed--and
here he was again. There had been annoyances, but now
he felt a wide and liberal relief.
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